


Star-studded Earrings

by Malsang



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, And even then you'll get some strange looks, Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Development, Companion Piece, Don't Try This At Home, Dreams and Nightmares, Elf Culture & Customs, Headcanon, Heavy Angst, Ideology, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Isolation, Other, Paranoia, Philosophy, Plot Twists, Short One Shot, Unless you happen to be an elf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-10-09 12:53:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17407268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Malsang/pseuds/Malsang
Summary: Foresight can be a pain in the pointed-ears, especially for a half-elf.A rebellious little PWP that fought back. Who really controls the destiny of a tormented character; the sadistic authors, or the plot bunnies?





	Star-studded Earrings

**Author's Note:**

> I think I just don't want to be tagging these as rape scenarios all of the time, so the character needs to evolve beyond some of this cultural angst, if only in his dreamworld.

'Wear me' was the only thing written on the mysterious note included in the small package from the woodland realm. Elrond raised an eyebrow at it, but did not comment aloud in front of Lindir. Underneath the note was an exquisite piece of jewellery.

"Will there be a return message to send with the courier?"

"It would be unforgivable not to. In the meantime, please see to it that our guest is made comfortable."

"Of course, my lord."

It took a while for him to figure out how it was supposed to be worn, for it was not like anything he had ever seen before. At first he thought it some unusual style of cloak clasp - a set of three chains of unequal length, joined together a mirror-image pair of gem-studded silver ivy-leaf clusters - but the hook and hinge-clip fittings defied that interpretation. Eventually he figured out that they were hair-chains which were to be worn hooked over the ears at each end. It was certainly an intricately worked piece that spoke volumes about the Woodland Realm's renewed wealth. That Thranduil would part with even a small handful of his treasured starlight-gems was a testament to how greatly he desired to improve relationships between their peoples. Still, given recent history, it was not a gift that he could be seen wearing publicly in Imladris. He put it aside for later, and went back to his interrupted task.

That evening, he stood in his private chambers before the wall-mirror and attempted - with its aid - to correctly fit the pieces to his ears. It seemed that several of the smaller leaves were designed to fold over edges of his ears to hold the silverwork securely in place. He was not sure he had attached the first one correctly as it pinched quite tightly, but he persisted. As he folded down the last leaf - equally painfully tight - he saw in the mirror, a flash of light from the gems. Immediately he cried out as an intense, sharp pain shot through both ears, then seemed to ricochet through the rest of his body until it grounded itself in his groin, doubling him over in pain as he braced himself against the wall, breath ragged. He tried to pry the clasps undone, but the movement caused more pain and his fingers came away bloody. What kind of cruel trick was this? But soon the pain was replaced by numbness, closely followed by a slowly building sensation that was quite the opposite of pain. Ears to groin and shooting through his arms and legs, his body tingled with growing warmth and increasing sensitivity. Now he was panting for a completely different reason.

Then memory broke over him in an unexpected wave. It was too clear to be foresight, and yet these events had certainly never happened. He saw Thranduil wearing a similar set of ear-decorations, and what they were doing together... In the mirror he locked eyes with himself, seeing his pupils slowly dilate until his irises were thin rings of colour against the black. His groin ached and became swollen as his ears throbbed to the beat of his own increasing pulse-rate. His own expression in the mirror was near identical to that of the Elvenking: tormented by pleasure he could not control, slowly losing control of himself. He stumbled towards the bathing room, some vague idea of immersing himself straight into cold river-water. Pausing only long enough to securely lock the door, he shed his clothes as fast as possible. In his mind, Thranduil squirmed and whimpered in debauched agony, clinging to him, begging his advice. Whimpering himself, he abandoned undressing and crawled straight into the ever-filling, ever-draining pool of diverted river water. It did not help, except maybe to wash away the blood. The water felt only pleasantly cool to him, even though he knew it should feel unpleasantly cold. In fact the rushing water was stimulating to his skin. In his mind, Thranduil was tipping ice inside his clothes, yelping in shock and pleasurable-agony.

What sorcery lay upon these gems that they could induce such horrific consequences in a First-born? His own parentage might be suspect if it affected only him alone, but Thranduil's lineage was as pure as the driven snow. Oh how he wished there was snow on the ground right now, he felt like he was running a fever. Fever. Surely he had something that could combat that? But no, he could not possibly leave his room to fetch anything. Could not possibly call for help - he could not allow Lindir to see him like this, and he had no-one else to turn to. He could not let this infection spread to Galadriel, even if he could bring himself to allow her into his mind. No-one on the White Council could ever learn of this, even if it was the direct action of the Enemy himself. He could not even raise the possibility of a rising force in their presence now. He hadn't been able to for a long time, withdrawing himself into a background role whenever Saruman or Galadriel were present. If they ever learned of his suspicions...

Mithrandir knew more than most. Not directly, never directly and openly, he could not be seen as directly linked to any suspicions, even in the mind of a friend. He had to always be seen as whiter than white even in their very thoughts.

He had never felt so completely alone. His heart went out to the equally isolated Sindar in his mind's eye. He had to find a solution, for both of their sakes.

He was shivering now, but not from cold. Yet he could not think of anything he could do. He had to remain here. Had to stay within the sound-protection of this room, for already it was hard to surpress the urge to cry out. He must not be heard.

In his head, he tried to view Thranduil objectively, as he would any patient, tried to see beyond his emotional reactions and see only symptoms. But it was so hard, he was so hard... A whimper of torment escaped him. But what could he do? Cut off his own ears? He was trapped by them, trapped by the weakness of his own ears.

He wept then. He did not WANT to be mortal. It wasn't so much about not-dying, it was the about not even living long enough to die for some worthwhile reason. Mortality was senseless death, it was out-living your loved ones or them out-living you for no better reason than that you were born to the wrong species. What right had elves to stay in Middle-Earth and rub salt in the wound of Men, flaunting their immortality before the eyes of mere children only to tell them that such things were not for the likes of them?

But Thranduil, even as vulnerable, helpless and appealing as he appeared now, was so arrogantly sure that elves had that right. What was the point of leaving these shores if elves like Thranduil would remain behind to breed resentment among men?

Then suddenly it dawned on him. This wasn't real. This wasn't happening. He was trapped in a nightmare just as he had once seen Thranduil in a Foresight. Something a young scholar had said to him about nightmares came to him. Nightmares were so called because they were easily mistaken for predators. You could run from them and be chased, threaten them in the hope that you were stronger than they were, or you could be Horse and listen to them and be listened to in return. Prey animals talked about predators a lot. If a prey animal was screaming about something, it was almost always screaming 'predator' and it wanted to be heard by someone other than the predator that was scaring it.

Not all of his patients were elves, he had some understanding of how mortals dreamed. Dreams were constructed of sensory-image idea-maps seemingly randomly linked together. Nothing was as it seemed. And the more blatant and bizarre the metaphor, the more scary it could all seem. So what was the message? If he could just understand what he was being told, then he would be able to wake up. Elves did not, as a rule, dream like men dreamed. But he was half-elf. The older he got, the more often he slept like men slept; eyes closed and not remembering anything upon waking. But if his ability to Foresee was being triggered as he slept, then it was a true Foresight but just too distorted to understand easily. 

*

He opened his eyes. His sheets were disgustingly sweat-soaked, but that was the worst of it. The nightmare was over. He gathered them all up and walked into the bathing room, taking his sheets into the water with him. Lindir might think it strange that he would do such a thing, but it was better than nothing. He was reassured by how blessèdly freezing the water temperature was, just as it was supposed to be. Wrapping himself in the sheets gave him protection from the current-chill that dropped the apparent temperature even further. This was an excellent excuse for having wet sheets, now he came to think about it. The cool water soothed him, dispelling any unpleasant reminders of heat-association, chasing away his fears.

And Lindir never commented on discovering his oversleeping leader, eyes-closed, half-immersed in the cold water, wrapped up in soaking-wet sheets. He merely decided that the waters here intrinsically had some magical quality that the healer was utilising to the greater good somehow. It was unwise to question such things too closely; eccentricity went with the territory of being a lord.


End file.
